


Still Fighting

by Owlix



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Dissociation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hugging, M/M, Other, Pacifism, Post-War Trauma, Suicidal Thoughts, the complications of switching sides
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-10
Updated: 2014-09-10
Packaged: 2018-02-16 21:19:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2284803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Owlix/pseuds/Owlix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drift's feelings about the war, about his own violence, and about changing factions are more complicated and more painful than he lets on. He tries very hard, but he still needs someone to comfort him when he stumbles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Still Fighting

  
  


Despite everything that Wing had tried to teach him, Drift still fought, and he still killed.

He thought of Wing sometimes when he did it. Of Wing’s tenuous pacifism, and of his own supposed new-found faith. His time with Wing felt like another chance that Drift hadn’t done enough to earn; Wing had told him that was the point, that people who earned such chances didn’t need them, that Primus’ grace would do no good if bestowed on anyone but the undeserving. That had felt too good for Drift then. Sometimes it felt the same way now.

Drift wondered what Wing would say if he saw Drift wearing an Autobot badge on his chest. If Wing saw Drift using _his sword_ to cut people up for the sake of a war that was supposedly over.

 _For the sake of someone else’s approval_ , some part of Drift said, before he silenced it.

 

Drift tried to make it into a game, the way it had been before. And Rodimus helped him without really understanding why he needed it. They even had rules - a system of who could kill who, another system for keeping score.

But Drift still remembered the Decepticon grunts before battle, laughing and joking and sometimes embracing. He remembered them afterwards, drinking and celebrating, grateful to be alive, or mourning the deaths of their friends and endurae.

He still remembered riddling Autobots with holes, even as he walked among them now - the images intrusive and unwanted, memories so frame-deep that he could still feel the kick of the firearm and smell the burning fuel.

And sometimes both memories weighed on him equally after he fought. Sometimes it all seemed too much. Killing for this side, or killing for that. Killing for someone else, or killing for himself. Too much, and he had to get away, and…

And Rodimus found him. Rodimus, all well-meaning misunderstanding and warm voice and warmer embraces, slipped a hand around his shoulder. Drift felt abruptly nauseous. His back tingled with creeping discomfort at the touch. He waited. The feeling slowly eased, but didn’t entirely disappear.

“You all right?” Rodimus asked, knowing he wasn’t.

Drift didn’t answer, just leaned into him, and Rodimus held him, and it should have been good, but it wasn’t. The creeping discomfort spread, making Drift’s own body feel foreign.

But Rodimus just held him, oblivious and warm and stupidly, laughably kind. Some part of Drift hated him for it. Rodimus’ weakness and his compassion were too obvious. In the Decepticon ranks, he would’ve been eaten alive.

Rodimus was a good person. And Drift was...

“I should be dead,” Drift said, snarling, unable to hold the words in. He didn’t modulate his voice, and the words came out all wrong. Messy and hard and rough. Half Deadlock. Half gutter mech.

That kind of thing was happening more and more between them. With the slow, unfolding physical contact and affection had come an emotional openness that Drift hadn’t had since Gasket. And it was different this time, with no drugs to pry those walls apart, just Rodimus’ warm words and persistent fingers.

Rodimus went briefly still. “I think we all feel that way sometimes,” he finally said, words uncharacteristically careful. “It comes with the war. Ratchet told me that it…”

“No, you don’t understand.” Drift spoke over him, voice hoarse and raw and staticked. “I don’t mean that I feel _lucky_ to be alive. I mean I don’t _deserve_ to be alive. Someone like me. I should be dead.”

Rodimus went still again, for just the briefest moment. Then he wrapped his other arm around Drift and pulled him up against his hood, holding him hard enough to dent and scrape. Hard enough to _hurt_. The faint pain became a focus point, and the embrace became an anchor; Drift’s crawling discomfort finally began to fade. Rodimus shifted his grip, adjusting his embrace, as if he could somehow make it more secure or bring them closer together than they were.

“Not true,” Rodimus said against Drift’s neck, stupidly sincere.

“But it is true,” Drift said. All the emotion had drained from his voice. He was just stating facts now.

“No,” Rodimus said, voice muffled. “It’s not.”

Rodimus’ pain was enough to make Drift doubt. “Maybe not,” he said. “But I feel like it is. I feel like it _has_ to be.  You don’t know what it’s like, Rodimus. You don’t know what it’s like to have screwed up so badly in ways you can never undo.”

Rodimus laughed, harsh and pained. It would’ve surprised Drift, not too long ago, but he was starting to see the mech under Rodimus’ flashy paint and finish. “Trust me,” Rodimus said. “I have some experience screwing up.”

And Drift had gotten that feeling. After a certain point, hearing everyone talk so much about Rodimus’ “potential” had started sounding more like a criticism than a compliment. And Rodimus was constantly trying to prove himself - to Drift, to Magnus, to Prowl and Optimus and even Bee. To everyone.

There had to be some reason. Drift had never thought to wonder what that reason was.

Rodimus’ grip on him didn't ease. He clung, making Drift's joints creak with the pressure, face pushing hard against him, lips parted against his throat as if he was willing to hold Drift to him with his teeth if that's what it took.

Rodimus wanted him. Clearly, blatantly, entirely, and unreserved. The weight of that hit Drift like a blow and settled heavy in the depths of his frame.

Drift had to struggle to get an arm free, but when he did, he wrapped it around Rodimus’ back and clung. He could feel Rodimus smile against his neck.

And if Drift could be sure of nothing else - if nothing else made sense - at least he could be sure of this.

**Author's Note:**

> This has been sitting on my hard drive for a long time, so I finally decided to just post it. Thanks for reading.


End file.
